Dead Man's Song

Chapter 16

(1)

Tow-Truck Eddie was tired and he knew that weariness would make him inattentive. For three days now he had worked shifts as a part-time police officer, first guarding Malcolm Crow at the hospital and then patrolling the roads looking for the godless cop-killer Kenneth Boyd, and each afternoon he had gone home to pray and then take his wrecker out looking for the Beast. So far all he had gotten was one fleeting maddening glimpse of a boy on a bike turning a corner, and even then it may or not have been the Beast. Even the bike looked like a hundred other bikes in town. Patience, God had said…patience.

But how much patience? He prayed and prayed for guidance, and sometimes God spoke to him and sometimes there was nothing but an aching silence in his head. God always told him to be strong, to stay true, to have patience…and each day he rose from his prayers and went out with renewed hope that today—today!—he would find the Beast…and each time after driving for hours upon hours through roads clogged with tourists he came home with nothing more than his grief at failure.

“God! Sweet Lord of Hosts, grant me strength!” he cried aloud, kneeling before his altar, naked, humble, abased. He bent down and beat his forehead against the floor once, twice…seven times, harder with each blow until the floor-boards rattled and blood sang like angels’ voices in his ears. He pounded his fists against his temples and his thighs and then against the floor and his tears fell like rain. “What must I do?” he begged.

Then the voice of God whispered a single word in his mind, the whisper of it as soothing as Gilead’s balm. Now, it said. After such a long silence the voice caught him off guard and for a moment—just a moment—he knelt there and listened to it echo there in the vastness of his celestial thoughts. Then Tow-Truck Eddie leapt to his feet, his heart hammering with joy, and raced to get his clothes.

Now! Now…now…now! He was out there now!

Without bothering to pull on underwear Eddie dragged on a pair of workpants, pulled a sweatshirt over his head, and ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time and then leaping the last five. His shoes were by the door and he jumped into them without socks, without tying the laces, and he grabbed for the doorknob with one hand and his keys with the other. He slammed the door behind him hard enough to knock a cross from its nail on the wall and mere seconds after its plaster arms broke off on the floor the engine of the wrecker howled to life.

Now…now…now…now…

(2)

LaMastra held the door for him and gave him a nod as he entered the conference room. Detective Sergeant Ferro was seated in what had become his regular seat at the head of the table. Terry glanced at him and saw on the detective’s face a look of quirky amusement.

“What’s this I hear about Boyd taking a shot at Gaither Carby?” Terry asked sharply, his face cast into a harsh scowl.

Gesturing to a chair, Ferro said, “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Mayor, I have a very strange story to tell you.”

Terry looked down at him with an angry, weary face. “Detective, I’m not really in the mood for any kind of story. Just tell me what’s going on and cut the crap, okay?”

“Fair enough,” Ferro said stiffly, but again he indicated the chair. With poor grace Terry sat down. LaMastra came over and parked one muscular haunch on the corner of a smaller nearby table; he sat there, casually swinging his leg.

“You know,” said Terry, looking at his watch, “I’m supposed to be outside helping my town get ready for its busy season. I’m supposed to be shaking hands and talking to the press and generating business. I’m supposed to be meeting with horologists and other specialists to work on the blight program. I’m supposed to be trying to keep half of the farms in this borough from going under. Ever since your three bad boys came here—gee, was that only Thursday night? Feels like a frigging month ago!—ever since then, my quiet, artsy-fartsy little town has gone to hell in a handbasket.”

“Sir, let me—”

“And now the big, bad Cape May Killer—who was brought to ground by a man I reinstated as a police officer and not by your storm troopers—has gone missing from the morgue, and his psycho cohort is shooting at my constituents. Is this some plot to make my life a personal hell? Doesn’t the world of law enforcement like small tourist towns? Tell me, Sergeant Ferro, just what is it that we did to deserve all this crap?”

Ferro said nothing, allowing a little time for the words to cease their emotional echoes. Before he could speak, LaMastra said, “There now, do you feel better?”

Terry wheeled on him. “You know, I’m beginning to get a little weary of your smart-ass remarks.”

Holding up his hands, LaMastra said, “Whoa! Sorry, Mr. Mayor, I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

Terry rubbed his palms over his face as he sank back into his chair, and his hands somewhat muffled his voice. “About the only thing that could even begin to lighten my mood, Detective, would be the news this insanity is over.”

“Well, sir,” said Ferro after clearing his throat. “It appears that you are going to get your wish.”

It took Terry three or four seconds to absorb that and for a moment he looked almost comical as he peered at them from between his opened palms. “What?”

Nodding, Ferro said, “We are going to be pulling out very soon, possibly as early as tomorrow.”

“But…but…”

“Let me explain, sir,” said Ferro. “While it’s true that Boyd took a couple of shots at Mr. Carby, we have been able to gather reliable evidence to suggest that Boyd has since left town. Since this afternoon he has been spotted by three different eyewitness—in Black Marsh.”

If he was expecting the mayor to jump for joy, Ferro was disappointed. Terry sucked his teeth for a moment as he sat with his head cocked. “Big deal. You told me the other day, too. Same thing, eyewitnesses and all. Didn’t amount to much, though, did it? Boyd came back to Pine Deep, slaughtered two police officers, and stole a body from the morgue. Maybe you haven’t checked a map lately, Detective Ferro, but Black Marsh is only right across a short bridge. People go back and forth across it every goddamn day!”

Ferro flinched as Terry hammered home the last few words. He gave himself a moment, and then said, “Yes, sir, that’s very true. However, the three reports were all by reliable witnesses, so we know that—for better or worse—he is there. Since those reports we’ve had roadblocks at every bridge. We’ve already sent the bulk of the task force over to New Jersey and they are following several promising leads. Boyd was last seen climbing into the back of a pickup truck that was pulling out of a diner on A-32 near Wilson Mills Road south of Lambertville. We ran the plates and the truck was eventually located in a Pep Boys parking lot in Trenton. Driver said that he had no idea anyone had climbed into the back of his truck—he was playing his radio loud and didn’t hear anything. He checks out, and we believe him. Boyd left dirty fingerprints all over the truck bed. Unfortunately, Boyd was no longer in the truck when it was located, so we have no way of knowing how far he traveled before climbing out again, but it’s clear he’s heading away from here.”

“Best guess,” LaMastra said, “is that Boyd’s trying to make it to New York. We know from his jacket that he’s well connected there.”

“Still, no matter what his destination,” said Ferro, “the bottom line is that there are no bad guys in your town anymore. Two are dead, one is elsewhere, and therefore, Mr. Mayor, this ball game is about over. Chief Bernhardt will be following up on the investigation of who might have let Boyd into the hospital, but that’s far less important at this point.”

Terry stared at them both for a long time, hardly breathing, processing what he had just heard, then he exhaled so long and thoroughly that he seemed to deflate. He leaned his head back and stared upward at the ceiling for nearly thirty seconds. Ferro and LaMastra exchanged a look; LaMastra shrugged.

“What about Ruger’s body?” Terry asked.

“I doubt he took it with him, so we can only assume he wanted to bury it for some reason known only to himself. One theory is that Ruger may have hidden the money and cocaine and Boyd thought he could find some record of it on Ruger’s person, a note or a lockbox key. Another theory is that he may have thought Ruger might have had some useful papers on him.”

“Or, Boyd could just be a total nutcase,” LaMastra said.

Ferro nodded. “From his recent actions it seems clear that Boyd is mentally unstable, so I don’t really want to speculate on why he would want to do this, but there was no evidence that he took the body with him when he left Pine Deep. He just left.”

“Well,” Terry said, “then that means you guys really are done here. What else remains to be done?”

LaMastra shrugged. “We have to tidy up all the jurisdictional paperwork, check to make sure we have all the physical evidence we need, call in the troops, that sort of thing.”

“What about the missing money and cocaine?”

Ferro spread his hands. “Chief Bernhardt will conduct a search and contact us if he finds anything. If he needs backup he can contact the state police. Ruger and Boyd must had hidden the stuff somewhere near the Guthrie farm, or maybe in the state forest, so it’ll probably turn up sooner or later. Since your busy season is here, the chief’s going to keep the reactivated officers on for now, so there will still be extra eyes open until the money and drugs are found, and until the media circus hauls down its tents and leaves town, which I assume will be in waves. The Cape May story is still newsworthy so some reporters will linger until they’ve interviewed everyone even remotely associated with the incidents here. Eventually they’ll all be gone to cover other stuff and you’ll have your town all to yourself. Despite everything, Mr. Mayor, all of this hullabaloo may actually help bring in tourist dollars, now that the real danger is over.”

The mayor sat there and steepled his fingers. A number of expressions came and went across his haggard face, but he said nothing for such a long time that LaMastra started fidgeting. Abruptly Terry slapped his thighs with both hands, stood up quickly, and said, “Gentlemen, I can’t say it has been a pleasure, but I do thank you for all you’ve done. Please feel free to visit again anytime you want to buy some pumpkins, watch a Halloween parade, or take a trip on the Haunted Hayride. Just don’t bring any more serial killers to my town, okay?”

Rising, Ferro gave him a wan smile. “We’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Mayor.”

They shook hands, but there was no warmth in it.

(3)

Tow-Truck Eddie’s wrecker glided along in the line of cars waiting to make the turn at the stop sign. He was three cars away from rolling right abreast of the big display window of the Crow’s Nest, and within his mind the voice of God did not speak in words but instead pulsed with an almost sexual rhythm, though Eddie did not relate the sensation to anything sexual. Instead he felt that incessant pounding in his brain and took it for the heartbeat of his own godly inner self, his Christ self, as it rose in a different kind of ecstasy—as it prepared for the slaughter of the Beast. The Christ about to confront and conquer the Antichrist.

Another car turned and he moved forward. He could see the window clearly enough, filled with tombstones and severed limbs, draped with cobwebs and hung with bats and spiders. Eddie’s lip curled in disgust at the pagan display. Such things will fall and the sinners be brought to understanding through blood and the Sword of the Lamb. Soon enough. A pickup truck made the turn and Eddie was now almost abreast of the store. He could see two figures moving around but there was sun glare on the glass and he couldn’t make out the features. Then the last car in line made the turn and Eddie moved forward again and turned full in his seat to stare. The angle was better and there was no glare so he could see that the figure on the left was definitely Malcolm Crow. He flicked his eyes to the other, certain that it had to the Beast in his disguise as a human boy. He squinted, picking out details. He could see that the figure wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. That it was not a large figure—about Crow’s size, who was short—but the face was indistinct. He shielded his eyes, leaned forward, even cupped his hands around his eyes to shield them from any sun glare. The clothes were clear enough but the face remained blurred, like a photograph when someone has turned their head at just the wrong moment. Eddie stared and stared and then behind him a whole row of cars began nailing their horns. Eddie jumped, frustrated and angry, and took his foot off the gas, but even as the truck moved forward and again the angle of light on the glass changed to an even clearer view, the face of the second figure in the store remained blurred.

Doubt sewed threads through his heart and he turned and drove away. In his head the urgent guttural chant had stopped completely and when he spoke to God, there was no answer. Frowning, Tow-Truck Eddie made the turn and headed out of town.

When the wrecker was gone, the Bone Man stepped from in front of the window and nearly collapsed, his hands falling away from the strings of his guitar. Perhaps if he had more substance, gravity would have grabbed him and dragged him down against the ground outside the Crow’s Nest. Even so, a wave of sick exhaustion flooded through him. He tried to throw up, but he was empty, just a shell, and he didn’t even have the benefit of that release. He was thoroughly drained. Since last night, when he had played his guitar in the night to try and soothe the terrible dreams that were spreading like a plague throughout the town, he had been weak. That alone had cost him, and all day he had tried to husband what little strength was left to him, to conserve what few powers he possessed. This last act of standing between the boy and the eye of the killer in the truck made him feel as if there was nothing left. He felt less substantial than a fleeting hope.

Yet there was still a faintness of a smile on his gray lips. The wrecker had moved on. The driver had not seen the boy. Somehow the act of playing his songs while standing in the way—in harm’s way for sure—had turned the killer’s eye. Maybe turned Griswold’s eye as well. God, he thought, please let it be so. Please throw me at least that much of a bone.

Weary and sick as he was, his smile blossomed and he looked down at the lovely curves of his guitar and knew something he hadn’t known before. Is this why I’m here? He wondered. Is this why the grave vomited me back into this damn town? To save this boy?

The Bone Man raised his guitar to his lips and kissed it, his eyelids fluttering closed.

Let it be so, he prayed. God…have at least that much mercy.

(4)

LaMastra stayed in the car while Ferro went in to the hospital to say good-bye to Saul Weinstock.

“Real sorry to see you go, Frank,” Weinstock said, and meant it.

The doctor was freshly dressed and neatly shaved, but Ferro thought he looked careworn. It was understandable. He said, “You’re about the only one who is. From your esteemed mayor’s reaction I was waiting for villagers with torches to drive us out of town.”

Weinstock’s left eye twitched, but he kept smiling. “Terry’s under a lot of pressure. We all are. The blight and all, and the stuff out at the Guthrie’s farm. He used to date Val, you know. Fifteen years ago or so. He liked Henry, and he’s taking his death pretty hard. I guess we’re all taking this…hard.” Weinstock cleared his throat. “I personally would like to see you stay, Frank.”

“Vince is glad to be leaving,” Ferro said. “This place has gotten to him.”

“And it hasn’t gotten to you?”

“Well, it is a fairly creepy town, you have to admit. Says so on all the billboards.”

“Yeah,” Weinstock said, drawing out the word. For a minute it looked like he was going to add something, then just shook his head.

“Something up, Saul?”

The doctor took a second with that. He said, “Frank…if anything else weird turns up…? I mean, anything associated with the case…can I call you?”

“Well—Chief Bernhardt is handling—”

“No, Frank…can I call you?” He paused. “If it’s something I don’t think Gus can handle.”

Ferro studied him, then shrugged. “Sure. Why not? If it’s associated with the case, you can always give me a call.”

“What if it’s somewhat tangential to the case?”

“You’ve lost me.”

Weinstock started to say something, then smiled and shook his head. “I’m tired and I’m babbling. Have a good trip back, Frank. Come out sometime and we can play some golf. You play golf?”

“Badly.”

“Good, ’cause I like to win.” They stood and shook hands and Weinstock held on for just a second too long and squeezed just a bit too hard, then he let go and sank back down into his chair. Ferro gave him a last puzzled smile, a nod, and then left.

In the empty elevator he said to himself, “Vince was right. This town is screwy.”

Twenty minutes later the phone on Weinstock’s desk buzzed and he pushed the button. “The courier’s here, doctor,” said his secretary.

“Send him right in.”

Weinstock was fitting the hard plastic cover over the cooler as his door opened and a young man entered, eyebrows raised expectantly. He wore a uniform and cap with the DHL logo on it. “Pickup?” the man asked.

“Right here.” Weinstock sealed the dry-ice-packed cooler with orange tape. A second identical cooler sat on one corner of his desk. “Labels are ready. The labs are expecting these.”

If the driver found anything unusual in a hospital’s administrator personally sending samples to separate laboratories in Manhattan and Philadelphia, he didn’t let it show. It probably never occurred to him, just another pickup. DHL handled tens of thousands of medical courier jobs every day. Weinstock signed on the electronic clipboard and the courier took one cooler in each hand, wished the doctor a “Nice day,” and left.

When he was gone, Weinstock sank down in his seat and leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to still the hammering of his heart. That took awhile. When he finally opened his eyes, the quality of sunlight in the room had changed and there were slanting shadows angled across his office, and he realized that he must have fallen asleep. Darting a look at the clock he was shocked to see that over two hours had passed. The sun was already behind the far mountains and night was coming on fast. “Shit!” he hissed as he jumped up and headed for the door. He wanted to be home before dark.

Once he was in his car, Weinstock punched Crow’s number into his cell and listened to it ring five times before a voice answered: “Crow’s Nest.”

“Who’s this?” Weinstock barked.

“Mike Sweeney, how may I help you?”

“Is Crow there?”

“He’s with a customer, sir, may I—”

Weinstock punched the disconnect button. “Damn,” he said as he drove through the gathering gloom.